


Wannabe

by Jaune_Chat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bodyguard, Bullying, Explicit Consent, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Conditions, Miscommunication, Not Canon Compliant, Rimming, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune_Chat/pseuds/Jaune_Chat
Summary: Brock Rumlow is fine with being an omega, even works with Jack as an escort for other omegas, but doesn't want to deal with any of the bs, hence he's kept himself on suppressants nearly all his life. But when they stop working, he has to figure out his own baggage and what he's going to do about his best friend-with-benefits Jack, who surely doesn't want Brock as a needy omega.





	Wannabe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

“You ready?”

“Hold your damn horses, I’m almost there.”

“Put any more of that gel in your hair and it’ll catch fire when we get to Inferno.”

Brock snorted, knowing Jack would hear it through the open bathroom door, and ran his fingers through his hair to make sure everything was looking good. That was part of the _job_, as he’d retorted to Jack’s digs to his grooming routine more than once. Alpha escorting meant fending off lunkheads, and omegas generally only hired an escort if they were going to be someplace with a crowd. Parties, clubs, sporting events, concerts; some alpha escorts were hired for museums or theater or stuff like that, but that was outside of Brock’s comfort zone. With the right scenting, body language, protective looming, and occasional shoving an idiot up against a wall and muttering threats in their ear, alpha escorts kept omegas from being bothered. Alphas usually kept their hands to themselves, but one bad alpha could ruin an omega’s night; escorts got paid to keep things fun.

It was a nice side gig to supplement their income from Hydra Security. Jack and Brock had gone through basic together, done their tours in the Army together, and when they were done and discharged, had gone into the security and training job together. Hydra Security maintained training facilities for police, SWAT, and a whole host of alphabet soup government agencies. It was the next best thing to being in the Army, and at least Jack and Brock could keep regular hours and go to sleep in their own bed at night.

Jack was the one who’d found out about the alpha escorting when one of their co-workers had asked him to escort his sister to a concert. Shipton had hated the band with a passion, but his sister Mindy wanted to go, and none of the friends going with her were alphas. She probably would have been fine, but she was only sixteen and Shipton knew how much of an asshole teenage alphas could be.

When Brock had heard about it, he’d insisted on coming along. Not because he was particularly chivalrous, because he wasn’t, but because the idea of some oversexed alpha cornering an omega in a crowd made his blood boil.

_…Put a sloppy little slut like you in their place._

Brock shook off the memory with the ease of experience. He lifted up an arm to smell himself, and wrinkled his nose briefly. Too sweet. He’d taken his drugs, taken a shower, used the neutralizing body wash, and he still smelled too sweet. He dug around in the bathroom medicine cabinet for Axe body spray and doused himself in the musky, spicy alpha scent. It was a tad too strong, but better that than the alternative. God, he missed his Army suppressants with a passion.

He stepped out to join Jack, enjoying the appreciative once-over. “You gonna be able to dance in those jeans, or will you be singing soprano by the end of the night?”

“Just giving you something to look at while we’re working,” Brock said archly, knowing the tight jeans showed him, and the work he’d put into his body, very, very well. He gave Jack a once-over in return, running his eyes over him appreciatively.

Jack was all clean, hard planes and long, lean lines, like a perfectly-honed blade. Brock never got tired of looking, and he had the opportunity look quite a bit. Hydra paid well, but the real estate prices in D.C. were _insane_ if you didn’t want to spend hours driving and a fortune paying for parking or else crammed into public transport with every other political, power-hungry wannabe. The two-bedroom apartment had been doable with the two of them. The mutual benefits thing had started when they had been stationed together in Afghanistan, just a way to take the edge off or to alleviate boredom. Some people played cards, gambled, told crappy stories, drank themselves stupid, or read whatever passed for literature in the barracks. 

Brock preferred action movies or TV, the more explosions and violence the better. If it was cheesy and he could mock someone’s horrible shooting stance or terrible aim, magical endless ammunition, inaccurate tactics or gun inconsistency, that was a bonus: action and comedy in one. If he couldn’t do that, he’d rather spend his time working out or getting physical. Mostly he took matters into his own hands, but when he’d noticed his squadmate Jack Rollins slapping his own salami after a long patrol when they’d had some downtime, he made the offer.

“I’m gonna do something about that if you bring it over here.” Jack hadn’t said no. Actually, under the necessary muffling to avoid blatantly alerting the rest of the barracks, he’d said a lot of really filthy things with his dick in Brock’s mouth. Brock loved that. He liked it that way; being in control of the whole situation made everything infinitely better. He could make the offer, he could turn down anything, and if anyone got greedy, he was in a position for really bloody revenge. And he could take care of himself any way he wanted. No one could really tell (if they were paying attention at all) what he was doing in his pants, so no one figured out that in between rough tugs of his cock, he’d slip one finger inside himself, just the barest tip, to finish himself off. He was an omega; he _needed_ a little something inside him to get off. He was suppressed enough that he never even got slick anymore, and no one had given him any shit once they’d seen him in action in the field, but he didn’t want to give anyone any ideas. More importantly, he hadn’t wanted to give his body the idea that getting fucked was going to be a regular item on the menu. 

Jack had been the only person to never say a single word about his presentation, or give him once bad sideways glance. Never even hinted at wanting to fuck him; he just enjoyed Brock’s mouth and gave him back a nice stream of filthy invective to let Brock know he was a blowjob genius. Gave a nice handjob too every now and then, and never tried to reach where Brock hadn’t asked him to go. They’d shared a nice round of that just before getting ready, Jack’s half-filled knot feeling great in Brock’s callused palm, Brock spilling himself onto the shower floor as Jack finished him off with those nice big hands. 

Jack gave him a knowing smirk that sent a little thrill through him, and turned to go.

“Come on, we’ve got a party to go to.”

\--

Inferno, not surprisingly, was a Hell-themed nightclub with seven circles of VIP rooms for the hopelessly rich, decadent, incidentally famous, or undeservedly beautiful. Their client, one Kevin Cho, was trending towards the latter, but didn’t seem to be in the mood to push his luck and try to get a VIP pass. Probably for the best, because Brock knew the staff rarely let escorts in the VIP areas, claiming their own security was sufficient.

_Yeah, if that were true, alpha escort businesses would be out of business,_ Brock thought, looking at the be-suited bouncers with contempt.

Regular escorts weren’t barred, of course, and if Jack and Brock wanted to fake being there as the guy’s dates as well as his security they probably could have gotten in. But he wasn’t interested in Kevin or in any of their clients that way, and had no interest or desire to fake it. He had a steady fuckbuddy and was shit at acting like he was interested in some little twink of an omega.

Kevin had a drink and began looking around in interest, dark hair turning all kinds of colors under the pulsing club lights, his sequined shirt lighting him up like a beacon. It didn’t take long before there was a steady stream of alphas sniffing around him. A woman with white-blonde hair smiled at him and talked for a while before being interrupted by a guy with red hair and broad shoulders. He was followed by a slender woman with dark skin and a long fall of braids. Jack and Brock watched Kevin closely to see if or when he was starting to get uncomfortable, then would close ranks, giving distinct “hands off” body language. It wasn’t until the fourth alpha, a tall man with dark hair who was dressed like a wannabe goth that Kevin started looking nervous. It was Brock’s turn to loom, and he shouldered in to the conversation with practiced movements. The Dracula-lite looked at him, blinking in confusion but not backing off. Brock went to stare him down, and froze. It was warm in Inferno, but not so warm that Brock was sweating. Except he thought he could feel a trickle of moisture in his pants.

_Oh shit._

Dracula-lite smiled, showing fake fangs. “Well, isn’t this my lucky day?”

Kevin whipped around and glared at Brock, who was torn between decking the gothite or just leaving. Jack stepped in at the last minute, the distinct swirl of alpha musk making the guy realize a confrontation wasn’t worth it. He backed off, pouting, and Kevin looked pissed.

“I thought it was worth it to hire both of you,” he groused. Jack switched his glare to Kevin, who abruptly shut up. The asshole alpha was gone, so technically Kevin couldn’t complain about anything. Except having escorts was supposed to reduce the number of unwanted conversations, not cause more of them.

Brock swallowed hard. He could feel the moisture again, no doubt about it now. And of course he was wearing his damn skinny jeans and of course he didn’t have anything but a few cards and his ID clipped to his phone. He gave Jack the signal he needed a break and slipped off to the bathroom. It was still mostly empty at this time of night, and everyone was minding their business. The vending machine was just inside, the usual aspirin, condoms, breath freshener, and pads in its slots. But it took coins. The damn relic of the 60s took fucking _coins_ and no one had bothered to update the stupid thing. It looked like the one from his high school locker room. No one wanted a pocketful of change or a coin-heavy clutch while they were clubbing. 

Brock waited until everyone was looking the other way, slipped the k-bar knife out of his boot sheath, and pried open the door. From the ease of it, he hadn’t been the first. Why wasn’t this shit free? If you needed a pad, you needed one, and it wasn’t like you could just stuff toilet paper in your underwear and hope for the best. That was just asking for stained pants and awkward questions. 

He slipped into the nearest stall and put the pad in place, swallowing down bile as he did. He was going to have to go to the doctor to figure out what the hell was happening, and he _hated_ that. Hydra has switched insurance providers and the new doctor they had to go to for their yearly physicals had all the warmth and charm of Brock’s stepfather, except even less so. He’d been suspecting they’d been getting their mail-order meds from some cheap, cut-rate outfit, and this whole shitty situation just bore that out. Fuck it. He’d go to a clinic where no one knew him and get some tests done on the garbage suppressants they’d been foisting off on him.

With the pad in place and a plan ready, Brock took a deep breath and got ready to go back to work.

\--

The last time this had happened and he hadn’t been prepared had been middle school. He’d been thirteen, at wrestling practice, facing off against his best friend Tanner. Brock had tried a new move Coach had taught him, but Tanner had anticipated him and caught him around his thigh and shoulder. He’d been about to flip Brock over his hip to pin him when Tanner’s fingers had felt the warm gush of slick that had trickled past the wad of paper towels Brock had shoved down the back of his underwear.

Tanner had dropped him, rubbing his hand on his thigh. “Gross! Coach, he’s all slicked up!” The whole team had heard and laughed. Brock had burned with humiliation that was somewhat salved when Coach had rounded on Tanner and the rest with a chilling glare.

“Sprints, fifteen of them, everyone, right now! Respect is one of the rules.” The team had all groaned, some of the starting to voice protests. “Twenty,” Coach had said. They got up off the mats to run, some glaring at Brock but more glaring at Tanner for having made a big deal and blabbing to Coach. Coach Mendez had taken Brock into his office in the locker room and got him the absorbent pads he needed out of his office. There weren’t many omegas that went out for contact sports, but enough that Coach hadn’t raised an eyebrow. Brock glanced at the ancient vending machine for pads next to the toilet stalls. He _had_ the money for them (earned on his _own_ doing whatever odd jobs would get him the hell out of the house), but the machines were clunky and _loud_. He hadn’t wanted the whole team to know he was slicking up! He already got shit because he was the only omega on the team. The sex-ed teacher had said it was normal, that most omegas had periodic slickings until they got their first real heat around age sixteen (give or take a couple years). But it didn’t mean it wasn’t embarrassing as hell. 

Brock took the pads with a mumble of thanks, quickly changing underwear and practice gear, putting the damn thing where it was supposed to go, and rejoined the others. The rest of the team was glaring daggers at Tanner when Brock got to the practice mats, but Tanner was glaring at him. Like Brock had _wanted_ to gross him out on purpose. He looked pissed.

The feeling was mutual. Brock couldn’t wait until Tanner started on _his_ presentation signs, and had to wear a rubber all the time to deal with the hair-trigger dick young alphas had to deal with. At least neither of them would have to go through the full-body sensitivity of a beta, who had to wear special soft clothes, dark glasses, and headphones until their senses calmed down. Puberty, as far as Brock was concerned, was hell, and having to deal with school at the same time was insane.

Coach didn’t even look at Tanner, just started paring the team off again for practice, putting Tanner with Elias on the opposite side of the room. As the first pairs got started, Coach tugged Brock aside for a quick conference. “You better not slack off, Rumlow. You’re going to need to be the absolute best. I’m expecting you to dominate at state this year, got it?”

Coach Mendez wasn’t going to wait for Brock to pass puberty, not when the state title was on the line. And he’d die before letting Coach down. Brock took a deep breath and stepped up to mat. Gavin Donaldson was his sparring partner this time, and he looked sweaty and irritated. As they closed to the center in starting positions, Gavin hissed, “Don’t get any of that nasty stuff on me.”

Brock gritted his teeth and got ready to pin Gavin in ten seconds flat.

\--

This was a crappy way to spend a Saturday morning. Planned Parenthood was the only place he could find an om-doc who would have any experience with what he was going through, because like hell he was going to bounce around from one overworked walk-in clinic to another without getting an answer. And he couldn’t leave, because stepping out to take a call was the same as losing your place in line, and he’d already been here nearly three hours. The place wasn’t as busy as he’d feared, but there were still little kids running around. Give him enemies with guns any day; those he could shoot. He just pretended it was torture training and tried to tune out their high-pitched occasional shrieks.

“Brock Rumlow?”

The nurse’s voice was sweet music to his ears, and he eagerly followed her back just to get out of the way of the kids. The pictures of smiling omegas along the walls and a bulletin board with pictures of children made him want to clench his jaw, but he resisted the urge. After an interminable amount of time of taking his medical history again (what the hell use was that twenty-page form he’d filled out in the lobby with the exact same info for then, toilet paper?) and vitals, finally the doctor deigned to show herself. She looked down at the tablet in her hands, then back at him in the chair (he refused to sit on the examination table until they made him).

“Mr. Rumlow, there’s nothing wrong with your suppressants,” she said.

Brock didn’t hear the words for a minute. “What?”

“Your medication is appropriate for the records you provided your employer and the Army. However, from your bloodwork, it’s apparent that you’ve been on suppressants far longer than that. When did you start?”

Brock swallowed. Shit.

“Thirteen. Got some from my stepmom.” Stole them, actually, but she was drunk so much she just kept getting more and blaming the doctors for cheating her, when she remembered to take them at all. Brock had diligently filled her prescriptions and picked them up for her, the one household chore he’d never had to be yelled at to do. 

The doctor glanced back at her tablet. “That’s not really healthy for a young omega, but I’m sure you know that, now if not then.”

“Wasn’t safe.”

That was as far as he was going to go in explanation unless she dragged it out of him with rusty pliers. 

“I see,” she said, without further comment. She tapped on part of his history (it looked like that damn endless form had been good for something), the one where he had listed his Army suppressants. “Did your recruiter promise you gene therapy at the end of your tour?”

There was a bitter twist to his mouth when he nodded. That had been the goal, right under getting the hell out of his shithole of a home life. Having _control_ over himself had been the most important thing, and the idea of being like those rich people who could afford to have themselves or their kids treated with gene therapy so they didn’t have to go through a hellish puberty and then deal with all the bullshit of people making assumptions about how easy you were… Being able to just do what he wanted, that had been a major part of signing on the recruiter’s dotted line without asking many questions. 

He sure as fuck had asked questions when the VA hospital had started ignoring his requests or giving him the runaround. It wasn’t until after he’d been discharged that he’d heard the truth from other vets: there was no magical gene therapy treatment for grunts, none that Uncle Sam would pay for. The best they could offer was a voucher for a small discount off a procedure so notoriously expensive that people bragged about getting it like they did when buying superyachts or private islands. 

That’s how he had ended up at Hydra. It fitted his skill set and temperament, and they offered good benefits so at least he could keep using his suppressants. Hydra, at least, hadn’t been cheating him, he knew that now.

“So what’s going on?” he asked, staring at a spot just above her head.

“With your early use of suppressants during puberty, and your extended use of the strong Army suppressants without any noted heat breaks…” She paused for his confirmation and he nodded sharply. After the first time, he didn’t dare, not after what had happened. And he hadn’t wanted to use his precious leave time to have heat because the Army didn’t give omegas extra days off; it was either take a normal vacation or go through heat. “Your body has developed a resistance to suppressants. The easiest way to determine if it can be reversed would be to go without them for at least six months and see if your body chemistry returns to normal. However, Mr. Rumlow, I will not give you false hope. With the heavy use of suppressants over three decades, it’s unlikely you’ll be able to use them to their full effectiveness again. There are some shots available that could lessen the intensity of your heats, but the healthiest thing for you would be to let nature take its course. After six months, we can reevaluate.”

Brock felt a hollow flutter in his stomach, somewhere between fear and an illicit thrill. The fear was easy; he hadn’t wanted anyone to have a chance to get their claws into him, and he hadn’t wanted to deal with the bullshit most omegas had to deal with. The fallout from the guys at work was going to be hell, and he had no idea what was going to happen with Jack. Jack… that was tied up in part of the thrill. He’d still wanted, all these years, particularly since meeting Jack, to give into that overwhelming flood of feeling that came from the one heat he’d gone through.

_sloppy little slut…_

He shut that down, hard. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want Jack to see him that way, as a needy, pathetic mess.

“I have seen cases of people who truly didn’t want their heats at all, and if you are utterly certain, there are surgical measures we would pursue-”

“_No!_” Brock said, far too loud. That wasn’t just getting rid of his heats, not if they went in and scooped out all his reproductive organs, no, that was possibly sacrificing any action south of the border. He’d heard the horror stories, and had had nightmares about being one of those botched, neutered mistakes. That’s why he’d opted for an IUD in the Army, even with the suppressants, just in case, because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone rummaging around in his guts and taking out parts like he was some kind broken car. He couldn’t trust that someone wouldn’t screw up. One of the only other omegas in his recruitment group had opted to be sterilized, and Jansen hadn’t been the same afterwards.

The doctor only nodded again without comment. “If you don’t wish to opt for surgery, then you’ll need to stop taking your suppressants entirely. If you keep trying to take them, their efficacy will only degrade to the point of uselessness, and there is a possibility your body might start to reject them entirely, even if you were to try to double up.”

Since that thought had crossed his mind (it wasn’t that hard to get ahold of suppressants, even if you weren’t supposed to have them, but Brock hadn’t needed to waste his money on that kind of illegal piddly shit since he _had_ health insurance), he was glad she’d said that. He didn’t like hearing it, but obviously the doc knew what she was talking about, and who she was talking to.

“I see here you already have birth control. Do you have a partner currently?”

He nodded tightly. “But we don’t…” He made an evocatively obscene set of gestures to get his point across. No penetration, at least not in a way that risked him getting pregnant.

“Right.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do they know your designation?”

Another tight nod, the fear and faint thrill tightening into a ball of gut-level discomfort. 

“Is going through a heat with them something you’d like to do? Or would you prefer to be alone?”

She didn’t, _thank you_, push that sappy, rom-com crap about how positive touch was so important for an omega in heat, and how nobody should be alone. He fucking _knew_ he could handle it alone if he had to. _But if Jack was there…_

He pummeled that thought down. He couldn’t deal with that right now. “Don’t know. I’ll have to ask him.”

Maybe. In three or four thousand years. But he wasn’t going to tell the doctor he couldn’t talk to his roommate/fuckbuddy like a fucking adult.

“Is your partner an alpha? That could affect how quickly you resume your heats,” she persisted, and Brock felt another stab of that fear/thrill, though this time it was more heavily leaning towards a thrill. Fuck. He wouldn’t be able to look at Jack tonight at all. He nodded again.

“It will probably take a week or so until the rest of the suppressants are out of your system. If you’re around an active alpha, your own heats could resume as quickly as two weeks after that. We can order additional blood tests at the end of next week to give you a better idea of where your hormones are, if you want.”

Brock shook his head minutely, closing his eyes and fighting a mix of nausea mixed with something like lust. 

“Then you can get that set up with Susan at the front desk. What else, Mr. Rumlow?” she asked.

He looked up at her, her expression mostly neutral, but encouraging without going over the line to creepily interested. 

“I, uh…” he swallowed and tried again. “Is there anything better than regular body spray for covering up my scent? I can’t use that much Axe without setting off smoke alarms. I’ve got an alpha escort side gig.”

She raised an eyebrow, but nodded and wrote something down on a pad for him. “It won’t cover it up entirely, but this will tone it down without making you smell like you’re trying to relive your high school years.”

He repressed the urge to snarl at her, only because she’d been straight with him. More than he could say for a lot of other people in his life. He snatched up the paper, ejected a curt, “thanks”, and got the hell out of there.

\--

Facing Jack with the truth was impossible. Facing Jack at home was almost impossible, but Brock couldn’t justify spending money on a hotel just to he wouldn’t have to talk to him. There was still work, anyways, and it wasn’t like he could duck out of that. 

Brock solved that like he was figuring out a tactical situation; never be where the enemy was, learn their habits to avoid their detection, take alternate routes to avoid habit becoming a weak point. He changed when he woke up to avoid coming into contact with Jack. Took an Uber to work instead of riding in with Jack. Didn’t come out of his room. Ignored every question through the wood.

“Movie? Die Hard’s on?”

“Chinese in the fridge.”

“Got a gig downtown tomorrow.”

Brock texted him back to go without him. And refused to answer the question mark Jack sent back in return.

\--

“Who got lucky?” Stefanowitz said, smelling the air conspicuously. Shit. It had only been two and a half weeks since the visit to the doctor. Brock must have been born under an unlucky star. He’d been using the pads, just in case, since he’d gotten the bad news. The slickings hadn’t really stopped, but by now he’d gotten so used to them he hadn’t realized how bad they’d gotten. “Come on, who got some of that sweet omega tail and did their walk of shame straight to work?”

The other guys chuckled as they switched their civvies for their tac gear for today’s training, a few adding some more color to Stefanowitz’ persistent questions. Jack slid his gaze sideways to Brock, who doused himself in the prescription-strength scent neutralizer and tried to ignore the questions with all his might. It toned his scent down, but as soon as they started sweating on the obstacle course he was going to be impossible to ignore. He’d managed to avoid most of the others at work primarily by luck, but it was running out today.

“Can your shit. Let’s get to work,” Munoz snapped from the doorway, and chivvied the others into moving. Couldn’t be late and let the clients see you as anything less than professional, particularly when Hydra’s clients were feds with giant egos. Stefanowitz lingered, however, and caught Brock by the shoulder before he got to the door. His nostrils flared, and something ugly and anticipatory crawled across his face.

“Hell, Rumlow, I never knew you could smell so good! Why you been hiding all this time?” He went to shift his hand to the back of Brock’s neck, to try to stake a claim, and Brock nearly saw red. At the same time, Jack brushed by them both, “accidentally” body-checking Stefanowitz and knocking him off-balance. Brock took advantage by gripping Stefanowitz’ hand and thrusting it up behind his shoulder blades. If he moved any way Brock didn’t like, he could break Stefanowitz’ hand before he could retaliate.

“Try to touch me again and you’ll be eating your meals through a straw for a month and wiping with your left hand,” Brock said, his voice low and deadly. Stefanowitz tried to get out of his hold twice, but Brock was their best at subdual holds; all those years wrestling meant no one got away that he didn’t mean to let go. 

“Fuck! Fine!” Stefanowitz said, and Brock dropped the hold, stepping out of his range. Stefanowitz backed off towards the briefing room, but spat over his shoulder, “No one would want your ugly leathery ass anyways, but just wait until you get dripping-”

_“…sloppy little slut, only one thing your dripping hole is good for…”_

The red haze came down again, and Stefanowitz was matching choking noises as the strong bar of Brock’s arm cut off his air. Stefanowitz was slapping at his arm, tapping out frantically. Brock let him go.

“Jesus, asshole, it was a fucking joke!” he gasped.

Brock took one step towards him. Stefanowitz ran out of the locker room. Tight satisfaction stretched Brock’s lips; he hadn’t run, not like he had last time. 

He breathed out and stepped out of the locker room. Stefanowitz was nowhere to be seen, but Jack was leaning up against the wall outside, far too casually. Brock walked straight past him and gave him the finger.

“Don’t need a fucking white knight,” he said. Jack looked up, the clean lines of his face initially set in his neutral calm understated satisfaction, then slumped slightly into corporate bland Hydra sternness. 

Part of Brock felt like shit; Jack hadn’t stepped in, just lurked in case something had gone wrong, like Brock probably knocking Stefanowitz’ teeth out. But he didn’t want anyone to see Jack as his protector.

Ever.

\--

Brock ran through training the latest group of rookie agents in their “assault on the terrorist cell” scenarios with only half of his attention on his work, which was more than enough to pick off the too-eager macho idiots who forgot to check the corners every time. That was what their agencies hired Hydra for, in part, to give the kids a dose of the real world without killing them too badly, and by guys who weren’t part of the home office so no one could hold a grudge. This scenario had repeated itself every few months for the past few years; it was nearly reflex by now. 

He had barely needed to exert himself, which was good, because the slick feeling was starting to be accompanied by a rising warmth. His heat was coming, and he wasn’t going to be able to finish out the day. Forget the team, forget his clients, if he didn’t get home _now_ he wasn’t sure he’d be able to. This seemed so much stronger than last time.

Keeping a groan nailed behind his teeth, Brock dropped his gear on the floor, exited out of the training floor through one of the hidden doors, and nearly ran outside, tapping for an Uber to get him home. The beta drive thankfully showed up quickly, and didn’t comment on Brock’s state, only fogging his car with air freshener when he’d dropped Brock off.

Brock hadn’t cared. He just needed to be someplace safe. Locking the apartment door behind him, Brock dropped his clothes to the floor, his body burning with a need he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen.

\--

The nurse had figured it out before he had, when Brock had come to the nurse’s office to get extra pads. She’d taken one good whiff of him, and shaken her head.

“You’ve started your first heat, dear. Don’t worry, the school has days for this built in for you, so I’ll write you a pass. You go right on home and get yourself taken care of,” she’d said sweetly. Brock had only been glad that neither his dad or stepmom had answered the phone, and he’d been able to get a ride from a bus driver rather than had to walk.

Even so, he hadn’t dared go through heat in his room. There weren’t any locks, and he didn’t want to answer any questions, if his dad even bothered to wake up from his mid-afternoon drunken stupor. So he’d gone into the shed in the backyard, figuring that was safe enough to give into the heat, the slick, easy opening that had been just begging for something in it all afternoon.

It had felt so damn good, his slick opening starting to clamp around his hand, the waves of pleasure and throbbing getting closer and stronger every time he worked his hand in more. If he could just get a little further and crook his fingers- Brock had been so utterly monofocused on his pleasure that he hadn’t heard anything from outside the shed. He’d been biting his upper arm and keeping quiet except for very muffled grunts and a few slick sounds, and there was no way he could be heard from anywhere nearby. He hadn’t needed to pay attention to anything but the way his body was opening up and getting ready to snap him into ecstasy. The orgasm swamped him, pulled him under, and Brock moaned quietly as he throbbed around his hand. It felt so damn _good_, and he could feel a greedy need for more rising. Gasping, he thrust his fingers in again easily, all of them thoroughly soaked in his slick.

Just then the door banged open. Light flooded the little room, mercilessly showing Brock with his pants off, eyes rolled back in his head, fingers deep inside his ass, slick messing the tarp below him. Standing in the doorway, sweaty, stained, and carrying what had to be his twentieth beer of the day was Ivan Rumlow. He glared down at his son with bloodshot, unfocused eyes, nostrils flaring to take in the thick, rich scent of Brock’s heat.

A horrible, ugly grin split his grizzled face. “The hell? On my own fucking property?” He gave a wheezy, boozy laugh, thick with not just too many beers but whiskey as well, probably drunk dry and joining the collection on the living room floor by the recliner. Brock was frozen in fear and dawning horror. “Damn omega. A sloppy little slut like you, only one thing your dripping hole is good for.” He took one step inside, hand going to his belt buckle. For one disgusting, sickening instant, Brock felt himself respond to the pheromonal call of a nearby alpha.

Then hatred galvanized him into action. Brock lashed out with his feet, catching Ivan squarely in the chest. It knocked him off-balance, and he banged his head on the doorframe as he went down, the beer slipping from his grasp to thump to the ground, falling over to soak into the dirt. For a minute Brock thought he’d managed to kill him, but then a long snore told him Ivan must have been so far gone into drink that he’d fallen asleep the second he’d gone horizontal. He’d been too blind drunk to even recognize who Brock was.

Brock scrambled for his pants and dashed into the house, shaking from hormones and adrenaline. _What the fuck. What the fuck?!_ was all he could think, over and over, until he made it into the bathroom. He’d passed Daphne, his stepmother, lying passed out on the sofa in the living room, a gameshow mindlessly playing on TV. She wouldn’t be going anywhere soon, so for now he was safe.

Brock looked at himself in the mirror. But for how long would he stay safe? He had two years to go before the Army could take him, and his part-time job wouldn’t earn him enough money to get out of Ivan’s reach. Brock looked in the direction of the back yard and shuddered. His eyes frantically looked around the room, hoping that in the tangle of hair products, toothpaste, and pill bottles was some kind of answer. Then he found it, a pink circle of pills in their blister case, a few randomly popped out. Daphne’s suppressants. She had a prescription, but was usually too drunk or high to remember to take them.

His body throbbed, craving more stimulation, begging him to continue. He thought about Ivan. He took two of the suppressants dry and locked himself in the bathroom until the worst of the cramps passed.

Brock hadn’t had a heat again. Getting Daphne’s pills was the one chore he never had to be reminded to do. As soon as the Army would take him, he’d gone, and they’d had him on their suppressants by the end of the bus ride to basic.

But now it was all coming apart.

\--

Brock _hated_ this, the fever heat that swamped his body, the loose feeling of his muscles, the fucking waterfall of slick that covered his thighs and was making a wet spot on the bed halfway up his back. His hand wasn’t cutting it, no matter how much he contorted to push in as much as he could. Even toys weren’t cutting it, and he’d had to improvise out of a fucking hairspray bottle. Nothing was completing him, nothing filling that gaping, yawning void inside him.

It was bad, the worst he’d felt, and he knew it was his goddamn fault because he’d never let himself go through a heat since his first. He’d never learned how to deal with them like any fucking normal omega, because he hadn’t made the effort to push past the fear of a man who’d drunk himself to death by the year after Brock had enlisted. He hadn’t wanted to endure the stares of Tanners, Gavins, Stefanowitzs, and others like them, so he’d put up a front and refused to deal. He just followed the rules, did his job, and ignored anything that he hadn’t wanted to face.

Now his ass was biting him back.

Somewhere in his brain he knew he wouldn’t die from not getting a knot, no matter how bad it felt, but there was that _scent_. Jack’s scent, just on the other side of the door. The apartment was full of it, even if Jack hadn’t even laid a finger on his doorknob. Jack had come back home, because it was his home too, and Brock had been too far gone to remember that he was sharing an apartment with an alpha whose dick he’d been sucking on the regular.

“You need something? Water?”

Oh fuck. Jack’s voice, neutral and low, but with that underlying alpha rumble that had done things for Brock since he’d met him. Water. Yes, fuck, he could use water. His mouth was parched and he was sweating and slicking so much he must be incredibly dehydrated. The water bottle on the nightstand was emptied a long time ago. That’d explain why his head was throbbing like a second heartbeat and banging like a bass drum.

He made some strangled noise of assent, and then Jack’s footsteps receeded.

He gripped the footboard and got himself upright, staggering to the door and fumbling at the lock, his other hand ready to ward off anything. The door gaped, and Brock was surprised to see no one was there. He’d thought… Even Stefanowitz had said…

There was a twelve-pack of water wrapped in plastic right outside the door, and no sign of Jack.

Brock fell upon the water with relief, drinking three bottles before he was somewhat satisfied. It didn’t stop the throbbing in his loins, but it took the edge off the fever and headache. It took more willpower than he was comfortable admitting to not shove one of the bottles up his greedy ass to try to alleviate the emptiness, but he conquered the insane urge.

No Jack. His mind circled back to the missing alpha. Why wasn’t he here? The practical part of Brock pointed out that Jack just didn’t want Brock to have to go to the hospital. They messed around on the regular, but that didn’t meant Jack wanted Brock, not like this, all nasty, sloppy, gross, and needy. Brock knew he was too far gone to give anything back; Jack would have to do all of the work. Why would he want to do that? Why would he want to touch Brock at all? He was just helping Brock out, that was it.

Movement at the end of the hallway. Jack, standing there, eyes wide, nostrils flared. Shirt off, and looking far too good. Boxers only, low around his hips, nearly losing the fight to keep his erection contained. _Shit!_ Brock’s pheromones had to be flooding the apartment now that he’d opened the door, and Jack was only uninterested, not nose-blind.

“Fuck me,” Brock said softly, cursing himself for being one of _those_ omegas, and went to shut the door. Suddenly Jack was there, looming his half-a-head higher over Brock, something glittering in his eyes, an expression that wasn’t disgust or irritation. He smelled fantastic, a hint of gunpowder and cordite highlighting his alpha musk.

“What’d you say?” Jack asked. His voice was mild, neutral, except for that damn alpha rumble that might as well have been stroking Brock from the inside.

What had he said? Brock had to think to recall his last words, and then the blood drained out of his face. No. No, he hadn’t meant it. Not with him. He wasn’t going to ask, wasn’t going to be someone who begged, not him. Brock was better than that, and Jack didn’t _want him…_

“Do you want me to?” Jack asked, and he almost sounded gentle.

He was too close and Brock couldn’t _think_. His ass was dripping, slick gushing down his thighs with an alpha so close. His knees felt so weak that he had to grip the door with both hands to stay upright. _sloppy little slut, only one thing your dripping hole…_

Jack couldn’t want him. Brock had been a Grade A asshole to him for a week. He’d alienated most of the team and screwed up their last escort gig to boot. Fuck knows if they’d ever get another escort job again.

Jack licked his lips, pink tongue darting out to touch his lips, and Brock’s knees lost the battle to stay upright. He groaned, one hand trying to grope for a weapon, because there was a chance that this was going to go wrong. Jack might not want him, but Brock had thrown his pheromones in Jack’s face and there could be hell to pay with him standing here naked and dripping.

“You can’t want me,” Brock got out, one word at a time.

Jack abruptly dropped his knees, bending his back to get even with Brock’s eyes. “Wanna eat you up. Let me show you.”

_What?_ Brock’s brain stuttered, caught off-guard by Jack’s words. His head nodded, mind paralyzed with indecision, and Jack moved. Brock nearly lashed out and caught Jack right in the balls, but Jack redirected the attack, abruptly rolled Brock back on his shoulders, legs over Jack’s shoulders, lowered his face to Brock’s ass and started lapping at it with no hesitation. It felt like someone had flipped a switch, plugging Brock into a live wire of pleasure as Jack’s tongue probed, lapped, and fucked him, drinking down his gushes of slick with moans of contentment, making Brock swear and groan as Jack licked at his hole with every evidence of enjoyment.

Brock scrabbled against the carpet to steady himself, feeling his mouth open and moans coming from his throat. Jack was really…

_Oh shit._ Brock was such a fucking dumbass. 

“Fuck. Me,” he said out loud, the words coming in two gasps.

Jack pulled away from him, hands sliding down Brock’s thighs, face a mess but in a way Brock didn’t mind at all. He was blinking in a way that meant his mind was about as distracted as Brock’s and wasn’t sure he’d heard right, not with Brock’s thighs having been muffling his ears.

The hollow ache inside of him had gotten infinitely worse when Jack’s tongue had left him.

“I want you to _fuck me!_” Brock said, as clear and direct as he could get, reaching to pull Jack up his body, spreading his legs even more.

Jack didn’t hesitate, sliding his boxers off fast, but then inexplicably slowed down, stroking the length of his shaft against Brock’s sopping wet and ready hole in an unbearably teasing gesture. It drove Brock crazy, feeling the length of him that he knew so well just inches away from where he wanted it the most. The half-filled knot of Jack’s shaft would catch against his rim, and Brock swore a blue streak at how that felt.

“Give it to me, put it in me, fuck me Jack, fuck me, fuckme!” 

Jack _snarled_ in a way that ramped Brock’s lust up even more, and then shoved the whole length of his swollen alpha dick right inside, right up to the hilt in a single stroke. It felt _perfect_, and why the hell had he waited so damn long when they could have been doing this for years? Brock orgasmed right away, one hand gripping Jack close, letting himself go as Jack began to thrust inside of him with laser-focused intent. Brock knew every inch of Jack’s dick, and he reveled as Jack used it as well as he used his gun, hitting every spot perfectly and keeping Brock soaring on wave after wave of orgasm.

“Yeah, give me more, Jack, fuck!” Brock got out, tossing his head back.

When he began to pant, Brock knew the signs of Jack’s immanent pleasure. His knot had been getting bigger with every few thrusts, and Brock had never felt anything so good before. He kept his grip up on Jack’s shoulder, hand slipping to scratch down his back. At the slight pain, Jack redoubled his efforts, and Brock reveled in the slight sting from the force of his thrusts.

“Knot me, Jack, fucking lock in me!”

Brock’s legs curled around Jack, pulling him closer as Jack thrust in hard, his knot swelling to tie them together. Brock’s orgasms hadn’t stopped, and Jack was thrusting shallowly, extending his own as he filled Brock up with spurt after spurt of spunk. They hovered together like that for an infinitely long moment before crashing back down to Earth, Jack bent over him, forehead resting on his chest.

“Damn,” Brock breathed out, lifting one hand and hesitating a long time before laying it on Jack’s sweaty head. He curled his fingers, pulling Jack’s hair and bringing his face up so Brock could kiss him hard, their tie pulling satisfactorily tight between them. Jack pulled back long enough to stare at Brock, then went back to kissing him.

“Your back is gonna hurt so much,” Jack warned. “Should’ve done this on your knees.”

“You can stare at my ass next time,” Brock said, and promptly flipped Jack over so he could sit on his dick, staring down at Jack smugly while trying to not let his eyes flutter shut at how good it felt.

Jack gave him a smirk of satisfaction, and began to roll his hips again.

\--

“You’re my escorts?”

The short little blond omega glanced back and forth between Jack and Brock, nostrils flared a bit to catch their scent, her expression one of incredulity. Brock lounged back in the plush chair that was between her at the dance floor, Jack on her other side looking equally unconcerned. The crowd was starting to pick up and the music getting louder every song.

“Yes. You want assholes kept away from you. That’s what we do,” Jack said, completely calm and unruffled. 

A dude-bro alpha in loud clubbing gear, backed by three of his friends, suddenly paused on their way back from the bar, staring at the blond omega in her pearly-white dress with an open leer. He extended a pinkish drink in his hand towards her, reserving something dark on ice for himself, ignoring Brock with a dismissive glance. “Care for a drink, sexy? I’d love to dance with you.”

Reasonably innocuous words for a club, but they said with enough smarm to slime up the whole dance floor. The guy might as well have been waving his dick in her direction and gesturing her for her climb on. Brock stood up and made sure he was between dude-bro and the client. 

“Dude,” the guy said, getting a whiff of Brock’s natural scent and looking confused. “Not my type. Fuck off, I’m talking to her.”

Brock gave the client a lightning-quick glance; her fear and distaste were very clear as she shook her head. 

“But she doesn’t want to talk to you.” Brock stepped forward, chest-to-chest with the dude-bro. Dude-bro started to scowl, and before he could get the bright idea to throw his extra drink in Brock’s face, Brock jostled both his arms so both drinks sloshed down the guy’s shirt and shorts, making him drops the glasses in surprise. The guy screwed up his face, about to try to deck Brock, when Brock body-checked him into his posse with a growl.

“Unless you want to get thrashed in front of your friends, get the fuck out of here.”

Dude-bro stared at Brock, then at Jack. Brock could see the wheels turning, finally coming to the appropriate conclusion that if the omega was this volatile, then he definitely didn’t want to meet his alpha partner. Dude-bro staggered off, swearing over his shoulder while his backup dancers commiserated him.

Turning back, Jack looked smug. And appreciative. The kind of appreciative that was going to lead to a very fun after-party for the two of them. The client looked strangely pleased, and gave him the tip-chinned nod from a fellow omega. 

Brock thought he could get used to all of that in a hurry.


End file.
